Ties of Blood
by Shi-koi
Summary: Yaoi - Slash - Crossover - HP x Weiss Kreuz - Heavily wounded, Aya stumbles onto another world within our own. Can he learn to trust in time to save his life and those of his friends and teammates? --ABANDONED--
1. Chapter One

  


  


  


  


  
  


TIES OF BLOOD

By Shi-koi

  
Fandom: Harry Potter / Weiss Kreuz  
Rating: R  
Spoilers: HP up to OotP...in other words, OotP never happened, never will happen and shall never be referred to again! ::holds up banner saying 'Sirius 4ever'::, for Weiss: the first series and manga, some stuff from 'Crashers Knight & Ran' and some mentions of Weiss's past.  
Pairing: Severus x Aya, Lucius x Aya (slightly non-con). Eventual Yohji x Aya. Draco x Harry.  
Status: In-Progress  
Warnings: Aya-centric, crossover, humor, lotsa violence and bloody stuff, romance, sap, fluff, angst, bad language, yaoi/slash (which is sex and/or relationships between men and/or boys over the legal age), shades of coercion/non-con .  
Disclaimer: If I had a penny for every series I owned, I'd still be broke. *sigh* Ah well, at least I still get to play with them. Heh. *wink*  
Summary: Heavily wounded, Aya stumbles onto another world within our own. Can he learn to trust in time to save his life and those of his friends and teammates?  
Notes: Japanese people introduce themselves last name first, ie, John Doe would be Doe John.

Japanese – English

Bishonen – Pretty boy

Name: Tsukiyono Omi  
Codename: Bombay  
Nickname: Omittchi  
Age: 16  
Height: 5ft 3in  
Bloodtype: O  
Birthdate: February 29th  
Flower: Freesia  
Weapon: Darts & Crossbow

Name: Hidaka Ken  
Codename: Siberian  
Nickname: Kenken  
Age: 19  
Height: 5ft 7in  
Bloodtype: B  
Birthdate: December 23rd   
Flower: Gentian  
Weapon: Bugnuk 

Name: Kudou Yohji  
Codename: Balinese  
Nickname: Yotan  
Age: 21  
Height: 5ft 9in  
Bloodtype: AB  
Birthdate: March 3rd  
Flower: Cattleya  
Weapon: Wire 

Name: Fujimiya Ran (aka Aya)  
Codename: Abyssinian  
Nickname: Ayan  
Age: 20  
Height: 5ft 8in  
Bloodtype: A  
Birthdate: July 4th  
Flower: Rose  
Weapon: Katana

  
  


  
---*---

Chapter One

---*---

  
The mission had been a complete success, almost. The four Weiss assassins had managed to eliminate all six of their targets without any witnesses. By morning all that would be left would be the corpses of the six evil men who had been drugging and selling teens in large, underground secret auctions to the highest bidder. Reports had come through of the leaders names, as well as detailed maps of their places of residence and work.

So Weiss were sent in. As Kritiker's only lethal unit they were in high demand, since it took a special sort of person to be able to kill repeatedly, day after day and night after night without becoming the same as those monsters that they were sent out to assassinate. Weiss were those people.

The longest-running member of Weiss was Tsukiyono Omi, a cute young blonde bishonen of only sixteen years old...barely. He had been involved since he before he was even ten. As a computer genius and amazingly brilliant strategist, Omi had first set up the missions, before finally becoming physically involved by the time he was thirteen. With his huge blue eyes and bubbly youthful exterior, no-one ever suspected him of being any more than the poor young orphan who worked in a flower shop to support himself.

The next to join was Hidaka Ken. As fiery and impulsive as Omi was friendly warm, Ken had found himself involved with Kritiker, then assigned to Weiss when he was fifteen years old. Now nineteen, he had four years worth of missions under his belt and his impulsiveness, although now controlled, still tended to take over whenever Ken's ire was roused.

Ken was the typical boy-next-door. Shaggy brown hair, large warm brown eyes and with an ever-present smile for the kids, no-one ever suspected him of anything. He was the type of person mums wanted their daughters to date, and the dads wanted as best friends for their sons. Ken also spent most of his free time coaching the neighborhood kids playing soccer, something which grounded Ken as much as it helped him to relax.

Kudou Yohji was next. As different from Omi and Ken as lager was to champagne, Yohji was the typical ladies man. A playboy with an eye for seduction. Tall, just a shade below six foot, with a lanky, boneless grace, permanently half-lidded smoky green eyes and shoulder-length oak-brown hair, Yohji knew he had looks to kill. Never without a date, Yohji used his charm and good looks with as much ease during his missions, as he did outside of them.

The last person to join was Fujimiya Aya. Weiss had already been an established team working together for years before Aya came into the picture. The katana-wielding nineteen-year-old redhead was as cold as the arctic in mid-winter. Never smiling, unwilling to become anything other than another part of the team, Aya had only one goal in his life. Revenge. Nothing else mattered. He slept, ate and worked because that was what was expected, and because he needed his strength to fight. Everything else was superfluous.

With his slanted violet eyes, magnolia-pale skin and hair the colour of blood, Aya was not they kind of person you passed in the street and forgot easily. At 5ft 8 he was below the average height for his twenty years, and combined with his slim, toned body with it's sleek muscles, the dangers he faced were more than simply those he came across in their missions.

Somehow, despite the differences in their attitudes, skills and outlooks, the four of them became closer than acquaintances, deeper than friends. They were there when the truth about their pasts surfaced. From the betrayal Ken had to live through by his best friend Kase, to the moment Ken found out and had to kill him with his claws...his bugnuks. To the time when Yohji was faced with an almost exact replica of his greatest loss...the death of the woman he loved and the woman he rescued who seemed so similar.

They banded together when they found out that Omi's true name was not Tsukiyono Omi, but Takatori Mamoru, the son of the most evil man in Japan. Horrified, Omi's memories returned, memories of being kidnapped when only a small boy, before Kritiker was in his life. Remembering when his father, Takatori Reiji, told his kidnappers to keep him, which they did, until his uncle, the man behind Kritiker...and Weiss, rescued him in secret and re-named the lost little boy, training him to lead Weiss.

And they were there for each other when the truth of Aya's past came out. Takatori Reiji had framed and ordered his family's deaths. His father and mother being killed in the explosion which reduced their home to rubble and knocked his sister into a coma. Only surviving by pure chance, Fujimiya Ran took his sisters name and became an assassin to pay for her hospital bills and to find the man who destroyed his family and life.

Takatori Reiji was dead by Aya's hands eight months previously, and Weiss became legendary amongst the shadowy world of Kritiker. Which led to their current assignment.

Flown in secret to London, England, the Japanese team had been dispatched to eliminate the men who ran the ring while another group, who remained un-named, but whom Aya suspected to be his old team, Crashers, were sent to free the teens who had been kidnapped. The plan had been simple and effective. The six men and their aides always ate dinner at precisely eight pm every Saturday night before the games and Auction began. This week they were going to be meeting in a very upscale bar and restaurant, The Golden Dove. The type of place with private rooms where they could converse without nosy ears and eyes.

Omi took his position co-ordinating the other three members, Yohji going in as a customer and Aya and Ken both as waiters. Omi had given both Ken and Aya a half-dozen vials of his specially brewed poison. Only two drops would be needed in a dish to kill the person eating it. It was their primary plan, backup plan was for Ken to shred them, or Aya to slice their heads off, or their guts open. Yohji was in position to ensure none of the targets escaped.

Everything went according to plan, at first. Omi got the signal that the 'Harem' as it was called, where the kids were being kept had been cleared. He gave the signal to proceed, Aya knocking out the two waiters whose places they would take just as Yohji was shown to his table. The poison was delivered to the starter soups and the bowls placed in front of the targets.

That's when things went belly-up. Five of the six men ate theirs, apparently happy, but the sixth complained of a stomach ache and pushed his bowl to one side. Ken frowned, not quite able to keep his expression neutral, and flashed Aya a concerned glance, using his eyes to indicate the sixth target. Making an instant decision just as one of the aides realised something strange was going on, Aya leapt forward, wishing for a moment that he still had his katana, rather than the twin curved daggers, the only blades that would fit beneath the rather tight outfit. 

One part of his brain registered Ken leaping after the targets on his side of the room, a feral grin twisting his lips as he ripped and tore, sliced and shredded his way through the half-drugged bodies of their targets. Aya drew the daggers, concentrating on the still fully aware sixth man and the three aides still standing. Moving in a graceful blur, Aya darted between the target and his aide, sweeping round in a standing to crouch maneuver which gutted the target and sliced the throat of his aide. It was as he was turning and leaping towards the other two aides that a flash of heated pain burnt it's way through his left side.

Aya grunted and landed awkwardly, panting from the line of fire burning his chest as he desperately drew in air. The aide who'd shot him stepped in closer, the gun she'd managed to pull aimed unerringly at Aya's head. A quick movement caught his eye as he knelt, Ken was moving in from the other side.

With a roar, Aya jumped up just as Ken slashed, dagger meeting claw in the center of her chest. Her eyes widened in shock, then blanked as death took over, her body hanging limply between them.

"Shit. C'mon Aya. We've gotta move."

Aya nodded, in too much pain to speak. Ken obviously hadn't realised how badly he was hurt, because he pulled Aya to his feet as Yohji opened the door, his razor wire ready to be used. "Ken...Aya...move out."

Ken nodded, disappearing out the back entrance of the kitchens.

"Aya?"

Aya shook his head, forcing the dizziness back. He was a flash of relief went through him as he realised the blood didn't show up on his black waiters uniform. "Out back." Aya rasped. "Get me my things."

Yohji narrowed his eyes, his stare indicating he'd picked up something in Aya's voice. Aya raised his eyes, cold indigo daring the blonde to disagree. Yohji moved his head a fraction in assent before he ghosted out, leaving Aya in the room with the bodies.

Aya sagged as soon as he was alone, leaning against the table as he gasped for breath. He waited until his head cleared, counting the overly loud beats of his heart until he found he could walk as close to normal as was possible.

Avoiding the other waiters, and leaving by the deliveries/services exit, Aya leant against the wall, bathed by the shadows until Yohji appeared from the other side of the alley. He handed Aya his katana and ankle-long thick black coat, waiting until Aya glared and cleared his throat before finally leaving the younger assassin alone.

They had already agreed to split up and make their own way to the safe house, since the four of them together would be too conspicuous together. He had three hours to reach the rendevous before the other three members of Weiss were re-located and a team sent out to collect ether him, or information pertaining to his whereabouts. If he didn't make the twenty-minute trip with the next three hours, chances were he'd be dead.

Ripping a long makeshift bandage out of the white shirt, Aya staunched and bound the bleeding bullet wound in his side, partially glad that there was a corresponding hole on the other side where the bullet had exited. Tying the ends together as tight as he could, Aya then looped the katana belt over his shoulder, since he couldn't even bear the thought of trying to attach it in it's usual place around his waist. His right arm went in the coat first, and Aya had to bite back a scream as he pulled the heavy fabric far enough up to get it over his left arm, making the heavy fabric tug against the now-bound wound.

Staggering slightly, Aya pushed himself away from the wall of the alley, knowing that he had to lose himself in a crowded area, and soon. There was enough blood to leave a trail, and since he didn't have a spare change of clothes the blood would be extremely easy to track as it dripped from the fabric.

Buttoning up his coat, Aya stepped out into the streets, making his way into the masses of people starting to flood the streets. It was nearing nine pm, so it was prime time in the evening for those out on dates, or who wanted to get an early start on the night. Grunting when someone brushed past him a bit too hard, Aya paused to take a breather, stepping down a small alleyway and looking down the street where he had come from.

To his horror, although not completely unexpected, Aya spotted at least eight people tracking him. Four were the mandatory men in black suits, favoured as intimidator bodyguards, then another two trackers, probably low-key assassins and two thugs. With no time to waste, Aya joined the crowded streets again, quickening his pace to leave his pursuers behind.

The hard walk and fast pace started to take it's toll. Dizzy from blood loss and finding it almost impossibly hard to breathe through lungs which felt like they were constricted in iron, Aya had only one goal. He knew he had to lose his pursuers, and fast. Ducking into the closest train station, Aya held one hand to his wound and sat down, hanging his head between his knees to stave off the blackness starting to encroach on his vision. Everything seemed muted, distant. Sounds just droned on in the background. Aya shook his head and wiped his eyes, trying to stave off the constantly growing ball of fire in his side, starting violently when a concerned worker tried to ask him if he needed help. Barely managing to control the defensive impulse to draw his sword, Aya shook his head again in the negative, not trusting himself to speak around the thick dryness in his mouth. 

Finally the man left, much to Aya's relief. Stumbling unsteadily, and hiding it badly, Aya found himself holding onto the large arched pillars between the train tracks, darting to stand flush against the bricks whenever someone wandered too close. He was almost to the other side of the station, only a few more platforms to weave through and he could lose himself down the small back streets. Pressing his back against the wall, hoping to hide in the shadow of the arch, Aya suddenly found himself falling backwards through the brick wall. A sharp gasp of pain was torn from his lips as his hands scrabbled for anything to stop himself from falling and came up empty, his body landing with a dull thud on the cement floor.

Stars blocked out his vision in a spiraling of black and white flashes as the agony from the bullet wound lit every vein in his body. The blackness won and Aya fell unconscious.

It was probably less than ten minutes later when Aya came to, the gradual awareness dampened by the feeling of numbness across his legs and side. He pushed himself up into a half-sitting position, slipping a few inches on the puddle of blood growing beneath him.

A strange sense of calm fell over him then, as if he'd accepted the fact that he was near death. The pain in his side started to mute, either that or he just didn't care. Looking around, Aya found himself on a deserted platform, only the few lights from the lampposts giving any sort of illumination. The booths to either side were dark and obviously closed and there was no sign of the station he'd been on previously.

Getting slowly to his knees, Aya pulled out the katana and sheath out from his coat, unclipping it one-handed from the sling around his chest. He used it as a crutch to lift himself up, a small sob escaping without his notice as he forced his legs to hold him. He fell down twice as he made his way to the door of the booth, leaving huge streaks of blood on the platform, finally crawling/dragging his body to lean against the cool metal.

The coat came off as soon as Aya could sit himself up without losing his vision, the black jacket and waistcoat following, then the remains of the white shirt. The makeshift bandages around his side were soaked crimson in the center, and black around the top edges where the blood had seeped through the material and dried into a hard flaking crust, making them stick uncomfortably to his flesh.

Aya leant his head back against the door, shutting his eyes, forcing himself to breathe through the iron constriction which seemed to bind his lungs. He dug a hand into his coat pockets, seeking and finding one of the daggers he'd used earlier, oh-so-long ago, that night. His hand shook, making him drop the blade, and Aya had to clench his fist to force down the waves of nausea he felt at his own helplessness. Picking up the blade again, Aya held it curve outwards and carefully sliced away the soaked bandages, folding and placing the tatters of his white shirt in it's place. The sling from the katana was then wound haphazardly over the white cloth and pulled tight. The waistcoat and jacket discarded, since Aya knew he didn't have the strength to dress himself in them again. The black, thick coat however, Aya forced himself to put back on, grateful for the warmth it offered.

Fastening his coat as best as he could with only one hand, Aya folded the jacket and waistcoat into a pillow, sliding to the floor in a half-faint before the black comfort of catatonic sleep pulled him under.

  
---*---

  
  


The safe house was a one bedroom bedsit in a part of London frequented by night-time traffic of the more personal kind. The type of area where no-one would comment on the coming and goings of the four Weiss bishonen. Currently only three of the four were present.

Tap, tap, taptaptap...tap, tap, taptap...

"Do you have to do that?" Omi asked, a rarely seen frown on his face.

Ken blinked. "Ne, Omittchi, I was only..."

"You were only tapping that damn table constantly for the past forty minutes, Ken-kun." Omi groused, shifting uncomfortably on the bed he was sitting on, for lack of anywhere else. The chair having been taken by Ken and with the tall playboy having draped himself along the only sofa.

"Ah...sorry Omi." Ken offered sheepishly, crossing his arms to keep them still. Out of the three of them, he found it the hardest to keep still.

The anger seemed to deflate out of the youngest Weiss. He shook his head. "I should be the one apologising. I shouldn't have snapped at you Kenken."

The brunette shrugged. "Hey, don't worry. You're worried about Aya, that's all." Ken said with a comforting smile. "Aya's tough. He'll show up soon." I hope.

Omi nodded, resting his head against the wall a moment later. "I hope so Ken. I hope so."

Across the room the eldest of Weiss lay with his eyes shut, hidden beneath his ever-present shades. Yohji ground his teeth together as he tried to release the tension held in every pore of his body. His mind replaying the moment when he chose to ignore the thinly masked agony in Aya's normally cool violet eyes. Omi or Ken would probably not have caught the expression, but for Yohji it had been plain to see. 

He'd reasoned that if Aya had truly needed help he would have asked. Possibly... Maybe... Yohji pushed the thoughts down. Images of Aya, bloody, his beautiful eyes completely empty of expression, his body broken...all because Yohji had refused to show that he cared.

No...he would never let that happen. You'd better be safe Ayan, because I'll find you. I'll find you Aya.

  
---*---

  
  


The early pre-dawn rays pulled Aya from his restless and fitful slumber. He blinked his eyes groggily, disoriented from the fatigue which had seeped into his bones. Somehow...luckily...no-one had stumbled across his defenseless unconscious body as he slept, which was both odd and comforting.

Stretching out one trembling hand, Aya grabbed upwards, holding onto the metal doorhandle above him, using it and his sword to lever himself up. A pained yelp was quickly bit back as the young assassin forced himself to kneel, then push himself to his feet.

He didn't do it a moment too soon. The faint echo of voices could be heard, coming closer. Aya didn't believe for a moment that he could possibly be in the center of the same subway station he'd been on the night before, but where was he? It was possible that he had managed to find a false wall leading to a private section, but then wouldn't the platform have been guarded? 

Discarding that train of thought, Aya used the wall to walk slowly around the back of the building, hiding himself in the large green foliage in front of the brick wall. The plants were actually in long, deep troughs, which was perfect for hiding behind. Sliding down the wall, Aya suddenly jerked up his head as someone shouted. Kuso! They must have found the blood. Footsteps pounded down the platform and a bevy of voices called and yelled urgently. Too tired to make sense of the unfamiliar English language being spoken, Aya focused instead on controlling his breathing. Passing out now would be dangerous, too dangerous considering he had no way of contacting anyone yet.

There seemed to be some sort of search being coordinated just as an old fashioned steam locomotive, the type seen in old films, pulled noisily up, and Aya could faintly see through the leaves as the platform started to fill up with people. Not unlike the morning rush hour before work. What was even odder was how the majority of people seemed to be dressed. If Aya didn't know better he would have said that at least half, if not more of the women and men wore...dresses....sort of. On the plus side, Aya's own long black coat would blend in easily enough. 

Waiting until the crowd began to board the train, Aya climbed laboriously to his feet, the pain draining the blood from his face, leaving him deathly pale. He wove in and out of the foliage until he found the perfect opportunity to slip behind a group of redheads, a family by the looks of things. A man, what he assumed to be his wife and three sons. One which seemed to be just slightly older than him and a pair of twins just slightly younger. Their hair was a bright flame-red, bringing to mind Schuldich, of Schwarz, the colour more orange than Aya's own blood-dark hair.

But there was no time to be picky. Out of the corner of his eye, Aya could see that the blood on the floor to his right had been cordoned off, and a group of the same dress-wearing people were standing about it, chattering and conversing in low tones.

Aya climbed on the train just after the five red-heads, following them down as they found themselves a compartment, then continuing down th the end of the train until he got to the last compartment in the train. If he needed to make a quick getaway, he would need to be near a convenient exit.

Using a dagger to jam the lock of the door, Aya literally fell down on a leather seat, holding his arms protectively against his chest and side as he rode the waves of pain resulting from his demands to move swiftly. He bit his lip until it bled, trying to keep silent. Grey was eating at his vision until he could see nothing but white, his ears ringing with a deafening hum. The train started up then and the steady thu-thum rumble shook his entire frame.

The greyness won. The pain, lack of fluids or food had sapped his energy and strength. Aya passed out.

---*---

  
  


"No! Dammit I said no!" Yohji all but roared. "I am not leaving without Aya. Get it?"

The man facing him quailed. Twice Yohji's size, with a short buzz cut and sharp blue eyes, he didn't appear to be a man easily cowed, but in the face of the blonde assassin's unrelenting anger there didn't seem to be much of an option to do anything other than flinch. It was sometimes easy to forget Weiss's reputation as a cold and clinical assassin unit. Half the team looked like cute school kids, one looked like a slim, if not beautiful waif and the last seemed more like a model or playboy than a killer. 

Sometime the person assigned to be Weiss's overseas contact could catch a glimpse of the killers beneath the masks, but that was not only rare, but the glimpses were so fleeting that it was hard to see them as anything other than a quad of highly trained and visually stunning agents.

Usually.

Mark Danning was regretting his assignment. Not only were the three remaining members of Weiss refusing to leave, they were also geared up for a mission, and there were none on the books.

"Please reconsider Mr Kudou. We are doing everything we can to discern the whereabouts of Mr Fujimiya. Our agents are good, as you well know. We will find him."

"But will he still be alive?" Yohji hissed darkly. 

"Yohji-kun?" Omi interjected quietly.

Mark breathed a sigh of relief as that intent gaze shifted to the petite blond sitting on the bed, his computer in his lap.

"What Omi?" The elder assassin asked.

"I think I have something." He turned the monitor around and pressed a key. Suddenly a grainy image opened up. "Watch." Omi instructed.

Hitting the fast-forward key, Omi brought the video forward a few minutes then hit play again. There on the far edges of the screen was their missing team-mate, making his way unsteadily across the platform of a train station."

"Got it." Yohji hissed in triumph as Omi printed out the location and map.

By the table Ken was putting together a field medkit, bandaging his hands and securing his bugnuk gloves under his jacket, ready for him to slip his hands into if he needed them. "Lets go." He uttered lowly, game face fully in play.

Mark wasn't about to let this go. He stepped in front of the doorway, blocking them. "You are a lethal unit. I cannot authorise your leave."

Yohji stepped forward, Omi and Ken coming up on either side. 

"Authorise this." Ken said with a feral grin, stepping forward and hitting the two pulse-points on the side of the man's neck. He jumped back as the agent collapsed, unconscious.

Yohji raised a brow. 

"Um...old trick I learnt back in the J-League." Ken offered sheepishly, his puppy-brown eyes merry.

Omi nodded, bestowing a warm smile on the older teen. "Nice."

Yohji clapped Ken on the back. "C'mon, folks...time to catch the kitty." he said, the light of the hunt glinting in his forest-green eyes.

  
  


  
  


---*---

Tbc...

---*---

  
  


  
  


  
  


  
  


  


  


  


  


  
  



	2. Chapter Two

  


  


  


---*---

  


**Chapter Two**

  


---*---

  


  


  


The high-pitched whistle from the front of the train startled Aya into full wakefulness within seconds. A quick glance out of the window confirmed that the train had indeed come to a standstill at a large bustling station with people even more outlandishly dressed than before. Some wore huge spiraling hats and those strange dresses which Aya had figured out must have been some sort of robes, in every cut and shade of colour.

  


Using his dagger, this time to open the door, Aya joined the throng of people leaving the train, losing himself in the crowd as the next wave of people entered the train behind him. A strange feeling of disorientation flooded the young Japanese assassin. He was far more at home among the darkness of night than the bustle of day, and being around so many odd people only reinforced the complete strangeness of his situation.

  


Going with the flow of people leaving the station, which a large sign proclaimed to be 'Hogsmeade', Aya took the first opportunity to stumble a bit unsteadily down the nearest alley he could find. His vision was dulling again, the damned grey eating away at his sight until he could barely see. He rubbed his eyes, clenching his teeth when he felt his hand tremble. The pain from his wound had started to dull into a constant throb, which worried him even more, fever was also a worry, since Aya knew that he was probably going to get even worse. 

  


There didn't seem to be any phones, or computer terminals, not even a cyber cafe. There were no cameras above the corners of the shops and no signs proclaiming CCTV anywhere. In fact, every street and alley he wandered down was almost like it had never left the 17th century.

  


Using the katana and sheath as a makeshift cane, Aya tried to get somewhere secluded enough to re-check his bandages, feeling his way along the walls as he tried not to fall. He wished desperately for his teammates, for Omi's gentle touch and gestures when they were injured, for his easy reassurances and warm smile, he wanted Ken's bright grin and confidence in his fellow assassins and friends to survive regardless, his attempts to make Aya feel welcome especially after the stress of each mission, but most of all, he missed Yohji's ever present gaze, the lazy humor in his smoky jade eyes and the way he always seemed to know when to pull Aya out of his shell and when to leave him to his ghosts.

  


Aya was jerked out of his reverie when he slammed into someone, rebounding in his weakened state to hit the hard brick of the wall. A moan of agony tumbled from his lips at the same time that a strong arm reached out to keep from him from falling to the floor. The sword dropped out of his hand to clatter against the cobbled stone path.

  


Panting harshly, his legs weak beneath him, Aya tried to feebly push his helper away, but to no avail.

  


"Well, well, well...what do we have here?" A strong, cultured voice drawled, the English accent marked and as precise as a blade. One gloved hand held his chin and forced his face up, allowing Aya to just barely see the face of the man holding him. Icy blue eyes held a gleam of amusement, with a strong undercurrent of appreciation as they caught a glimpse of Aya's pained violet eyes.

  


"Let...let go..." Aya whispered raspily, dismayed to find his voice as weak as his body. 

  


The man tsked and shook his head, a fall of pale silvery blonde hair settling over his shoulder and a smirk twisted his lips. "I should think not." He cocked his head to one side, his eyes traveling the length of Aya's body, taking in the red hair, creamy ivory skin an slim body which was enhanced by the excellent tailored cut of the black coat. "Are you, by any chance, related to the Weasleys?" The man asked, releasing Aya's chin to brush a hand through Aya's blood-red locks. He smiled coldly at Aya's confusion, taking it as a negative answer.

  


"Father...?"

  


The man half-turned at the voice, a his face settling into a pleasant mask. Aya could just see the visage of a young man, probably around Omi's age walk down the alley towards them. He had slicked back hair the same shade of silver as the man holding him upright, but he was too far away for Aya to see his eyes. His skin was a shade darker than Aya's, magnolia to his alabaster.

  


"Draco." The man said evenly. "Finished so soon?" There was no hint of curiosity in the tone, his attention already focused back on Aya.

  


"They didn't have what I wanted." Was the youth's reply as he stepped up to stand just behind his father, staring with unmasked interest at the redhead held in place by his father. "Who's this?"

  


"I wouldn't mind knowing that myself actually." The man said then, his grip tightening as if he were concerned that Aya would dart away.

  


A feeling of danger settled over Aya, along with an undercurrent of urgency in his gut. He had learned the hard way to trust his instinct, and his instinct was all but shouting at him to damn the consequences and run as fast as his body would allow. 

  


"Well...do you have a name?" The man asked, looking down at the smaller male.

  


Aya tried to pull out of the man's grip, settling for using his arm on his wounded side to grasp the handle of one of the curved daggers, ignoring the fire pouring through his veins. "Aya...my name is Aya." His accent thickened as he struggled to grasp the blade properly.

  


"Aya...what a delightfully beautiful name. It suits you perfectly." he paused then. "I am Lucius, this is my son Draco." Lucius waved a hand airily at his son, who nodded, albeit warily. "You do not come from around here, do you...Aya?"

  


Aya glared at the way the man, Lucius, rolled his name so smoothly off his tongue. "No." he said curtly and yanked the dagger out of his pocket, bringing it up in one swift movement to the man's throat. He could feel the greyness return as he forced his body to move in a way it had no reason to want to move, stretching torn muscles and ripping open his wound further. A thin cut appeared on the man's throat as his hand trembled despite his best effort to keep his hand steady.

  


Instead of being afraid, Lucius appeared to be amused. Faster than Aya could move to block, he gripped and twisted, forcing Aya to drop the blade with a strangled yelp. 

  


"Now why would you want to do that?" Lucius purred, forcing Aya's hand down and pulling him off balance against his chest.

  


Aya found himself leaning against soft velvet over hard muscle. His right arm held tightly by the taller man and his left being twisted at an angle. He lost his vision and hearing for a few seconds. His head lolling against the man as his body fought off the burning waves of white-hot agony that the position brought.

  


Draco watched as the red-head fell against his father, his eyes rolling up and his skin draining white. A measure of pity stirred uncomfortably in his belly. The small male in his father's arms was not quite like the usual boys that he knew sometimes found themselves, willing or not, permanent guests at his father's estate. This one had an ethereal beauty, more than simply human. For an instant Draco knew for certain that if his father had his way, this youth would probably simply disappear from the outside world.

  


Maybe it was the brief flash of pain that he had seen in those amazing violet eyes, the desperation and determination to stay strong when he was obviously either ill or hurt that touched a chord inside the younger Malfoy. 

  


Or maybe it was because that pain was the same as the pain he saw almost every day in another pair of eyes, a pair of luminous emerald that burnt with fierce rebellion and hope.

  


Slipping away silently, knowing his father's attention was completely caught on the youth in his arms, Draco slid stealthily back the way he had come, back towards the main streets of Hogsmeade. There was nothing he could do himself without incurring his father's wrath, but maybe, just maybe he could point someone in the right direction to save the redhead.

  


Draco's sharp silver gaze scanned the crowd, lighting suddenly on a trio of classmates. He shook his head. There was no way he would approach the bane of his existence, not even to assuage the guilt he felt for leaving the youth with his father. Looking around again, he bit back a growl as he realised that there was no-one else he could approach. 

  


Not exactly the nicest of people, even at the best of times, Draco knew he had many enemies among his peers and their families. His father's involvement with You-know-who as his right-hand man had earned the Malfoys many foes. Draco had certainly never bothered to refute the rumors, since doing so would be counter-productive. People would never believe him for a start, and his life would become even more perilous, since he would become a target for both sides.

  


There was truly no other option.

  


Pulling the hood of his exquisitely tailored black cloak over his trademark pale skin and equally light hair, Draco wove his way to the other side of the street, purposely bumping into his target, Harry Potter.

  


The smaller boy yelped at his sudden unbalance as his friends rushed to help steady him. Draco shot the brunette a blank look, his eyes flicking to a pretty much deserted shop off to one side of the street, making a slight movement with his head that the others caught. Satisfied that he had captured their attention by his odd behaviour, Draco swept down the street and into the shop, losing himself among the shelves.

  


The bell chimed again within a few seconds and Draco waited as the three known as the 'Gryffindor Trio' flanked him.

  


"Malfoy." Harry said warily, a bit disturbed by his rival's strange behaviour.

  


"Potter." Draco returned, pushing hack the hood of his robe. He stared down at the slightly smaller boy facing him, completely ignoring the identical glares on Potter's two friends faces. His attention was fully on the youth opposite.

  


"What do you want?" Harry demanded.

  


Draco frowned slightly, not quite sure how to put what he wanted into words. His sense of self-preservation was quite acute and he only ever lived by one decree. Survive. Which meant never trusting anyone, never helping another and certainly never showing weakness.

  


"Well?" The redhead opposite to his right snarled, torn between dragging his best friend away from his worst enemy, and trying to decide if maybe they shouldn't have followed the youngest Malfoy.

  


Pinching the bridge of his nose, Draco took the first step away from apathy. "I need a favor, Potter."

  


Green eyes narrowed as their owner stared at the blonde intently. "Why?" he raised a hand to silence the questions he knew his best friends were itching to ask.

  


"Because an innocent youths' life depends on your answer." Draco uttered flatly, pushing down his unease.

  


"Murdering scum!" The redhead spat out. "You just want to trick us so you can deliver Harry to your master."

  


"Shut up, Weasley. I would have thought you'd be the most interested...he does have the trademark red hair, after all." Draco said grimly, although he didn't mention that the red of Aya's hair was certainly not the same as the Weasley's flaming locks.

  


"What?" Harry stepped forward, pulling Draco's sleeve to grab the boy's attention. "Where is he?"

  


"With my father."

  


Three heads snapped towards Draco.

  


"Harry. Is this wise?" Hermione asked, biting her lip as her head and gut disagreed. Her instinct pointed out that Malfoy seemed sincere, whereas her head, always logical, argued that Malfoy was never one to help, always first to harm.

  


Harry sighed, rubbing his scar absently as he thought fast. "I don't really think we have a choice." he said softly. "Could you live with yourself if someone got hurt, or killed and you could have prevented it?"

  


"No." Hermione said, deflating a little. Ron shook his head, but knew that Harry was right.

  


Squaring his shoulders and jutting his jaw out defiantly, as if daring Draco to betray them, Harry hissed, "Tell me _everything_."

  


  


---*---

  


  


"You are beautiful. Like a delicate rose." Lucius murmured to Aya, trapped as he was against the blond man's chest. Stroking a gloved hand over the red locks of Aya's hair, slightly damp from exertion and pain, Lucius couldn't help but find himself aroused. The small male's scent was one of many flowers, their intoxicating fragrance interwoven with the light musk of Aya's skin. "So...delicate." His hand trailed down the curve of Aya's back, tracing his spine through the fabric of his coat. "So...firm..." His hand followed downwards, cupping the roundness of Aya's ass, his other hand cupping the other side.

  


Aya could barely feel the hard end of the cane in the man's hand as he ground his hips into Aya's. He was close to complete collapse and everything was seen and heard through a veiled haze. He didn't even notice when the man tilted his head back and took his lips in a deep, forceful kiss. 

  


"So...supple." Lucius whispered, pulling his head back from the youth's. It would be an easy task to take this one back with him, the poor boy was obviously ill or injured in some way. Nothing that a few quick spells couldn't fix, but still...as long as the boy, Aya, was like this, there was less chance of his fighting Lucius's control.

  


"Get away from him!"

  


Lucius's eyes slitted dangerously at the voice. "Potter." he hissed darkly, one hand holding the redhead in place as he turned to scowl at the boy behind him.

  


"Leave him alone, now, Mr Malfoy." Harry instructed, his wand pointed carefully at the blonde man. On either side were his two friends, their wands in identical positions.

  


"Really, Mr Potter. And what do you propose to do to me?" 

  


Fiery green eyes narrowed in contempt. "Do you really want to face off against me, Mr Malfoy? After all, even Voldemort himself is wary of facing me directly." He used his free hand to motion to Ron and Hermione, flanking him, determination burning in their eyes. "Not to mention that I doubt you'd be able to dodge three curses; and I suspect that Hermione has some spells that even _you _wouldn't have heard of." Harry growled.

  


Flinching ever so slightly at Harry's use of his master's name, Lucius covered it swiftly with a sneer. Turning his back on the petite brunette, he faced Aya again. "I'll see you again, Little Flower." Lucius promised, removing his hand and stalking away in the opposite direction from the determined trio.

  


Without anyone to hold him up, Aya sagged against the wall, sliding downwards.

  


"Shit! Grab him." Ron shouted, leaping forward to snag a hold on the taller youth's arm. Harry took the other side while Hermione kept her wand pointed at the direction the elder Malfoy had gone...just in case.

  


"I don't think he's one of yours." Harry said, peering at the half-unconscious redhead.

  


Ron nodded his agreement. "Yeah. Unless I have some cousins I've never met," he shrugged, "...which is pretty unlikely."

  


"We need to get him somewhere safe. I think he's been hurt." Hermione pointed out with a look of concern.

  


"N...no....no..people..." Aya mumbled.

  


"Did you get that?" Ron asked.

  


Harry nodded. "Yeah. But he sounds weird. I think he said 'No people." he tilted his head to one side. "Do you think he's in trouble?"

  


Ron snorted. "I think I'd want to be alone after being pawed by Malfoy."

  


The two youths traded a look. "Shrieking shack." They said simultaneously.

  


Hermione nodded her approval.

  


  


---*---

  


  


"Damn. This guy's heavier than he looks." Ron complained as he and Harry half led, half dragged the redhead youth down the secret passage which led to the room below the whomping willow.

  


Hermione rolled her eyes. She was carrying the dagger and sword they had found by the redhead's feet. "It's not much farther now Ron, don't be such a baby. Harry isn't complaining."

  


Harry grinned. Although he didn't look strong, he had built up some decent, albeit slim, muscles from all training they had undergone together, as well as all the work his...family...had made him do every summer. Long hours of cleaning, gardening and doing odd jobs for people in the neighborhood – for which the Dursleys took all the money, had helped him become slightly stronger than the average youth his age.

  


"Hermione's right Ron," Harry said, smiling, "we're nearly there." His words proved true as they turned another corner and found themselves only a few feet away from their goal.

  


"'Mione, would you sweep down the bed?" Harry asked.

  


She nodded, carefully putting the two items on the rickety table and quickly shaking the dust off the sheet. It wasn't a moment too soon. Harry and Ron managed to get the redhead on the bed, awkwardly, but they did manage it.

  


"Right. Harry, cast _Lumos_ please. Ron, wipe down the table." Hermione instructed. The light from the spell lit the dilapidated room with a soft golden glow. Pulling up one of the wooden chairs from beside the table, Hermione sat herself beside the bed, her fingers deftly unbuttoning the heavy coat.

  


"I'm going to have to find out where he's--" She gasped as the blood-caked bandages were revealed.

  


"Holy--!" Ron yelped. Harry cursed and rubbed his eyes.

  


Feeling the redhead's pulse, Hermione frowned when she realised just how weak and thready it was. A quick hand on his forehead confirmed another fear. "He's got a fever." She said softly. "Harry, could you and Ron get me some things?"

  


Both boys nodded.

  


"I haven't got any paper, so you're going to have to remember this carefully," she warned. "I need you both to get into Poppy's medical supplies. I need bandages, a coagulating potion, full set of recovery potions, just in case, a cell-regen potion, blood-replacer, blood-regen potion, a list, if you can find it, of the spells and incantations Poppy uses to check a patient's stats, skin-bonder, and...er," she thought hard for a moment, "you'll need to make another trip to pick up some clean blankets, clothes for out guest and some food for later. Soft stuff and fluids mainly for him, and some stuff for us. Oh! And some pepper-up potions so we can stay awake."

  


Two sets of wide eyes greeted her as she finished. Hermione grinned sheepishly. "Um...that's all...I guess."

  


"Whoa!" Ron gasped out on a long breath. "Talk about a trip 'n a half, 'Mione."

  


Harry snickered. "We'll be as fast as we can."

  


"Don't get caught!" Hermione shouted after them. "Boys." she muttered, a smile tugging her lips as they ran out.

  


  


---*---

  


  


Aya was drifting. His entire world was nothing more than a series of black interludes, interspersed with white stars and that damn grey that seemed to be eating away at him. He felt someone try to move him, another wipe his forehead. His body relented, allowing him to fall into a dreamless sleep. _I'm safe_. His head told him. _Weiss found me._

  


  


_---*---_

  


  


Hermione was getting worried. During the past half hour that Harry and Ron had been away, the redhead's temperature had increased dramatically. He had mumbled out a few incoherent words. Something about 'Vice' and 'safe'. The rest had been garbled words in a language she didn't understand.

  


The teen brunette had arranged the youth as best as she could, lining up his legs so they weren't crooked and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief she kept in her pocket. She didn't dare cut of the horrible blood-encrusted bandages on his belly, since she had no way of knowing how big the injury beneath it would really be. And there was no way she would risk letting him bleed to death.

  


Hermione prided herself on knowing more than most people expected of a mudblood. And some part of her, the greater part if truth be told, was actually happy to be born to muggle parents. It gave her a larger, much more vital view of the world, one which those born into strictly magical families had no idea of. She knew that things were far from the black and white image most wizarding families grew up with of muggles, since most of them had never really tried to find out about the world they lived side by side with and with whom they shared the planet. 

  


It wouldn't be long before muggles found out about the wizarding world, since, unlike magical people, they searched to advance themselves, often in ways which would be considered ridiculous to magical folk. Most wizarding families and folks were insular, and a tad xenophobic, and racism ran unbridled through the entire magical race. Even those who didn't believe in the 'purity' of wizards and witches versus those contaminated by muggles were still, unfortunately blinded by their own apparent superiority.

  


There were many times when Ron himself had lamented the fact that a bright girl like her had been born to muggle parents. Although kindly meant, he just couldn't understand why she was content with her family, and the taunting of her peers only hurt because she didn't feel like she _should _be ashamed. 

  


Hermione _liked_ the world she came from, with all it's faults and mistakes. She loved the many cultures her world had produced, so radically different from the minute changes that so many magical families seemed to think greater than they were.

  


From space travel to racing cars, telephones to the Internet, Allah vs God vs Kami vs any other races' deity...to atheists, it was all all wide and varied. Even the small things, like defense versus attack, and the hundreds of cultures which had made both into art forms proved her point. Without their wands and potions, Wizards and Witches were helpless, even more so since they didn't believe their wands could ever really be taken away.

  


Yet the wizarding world had no culture of fighting, either with weapons or hand-to-hand for the past six _hundred_ years, those who did tended to be from wealthy families, and only learnt because it was _expected._

  


But that was a good thing...right? After all, that would indicate that the culture had risen _above_ such petty things and had become better as a race and people.

  


Yeah right.

  


After the chaos of their first year, and the even greater fiasco of their second year, Harry had decided that there was no way that he was going to be left defenseless. If he hadn't been able to draw that sword out of the sorting hat then there was no way he would have survived. Quietly determined to include his friends, he had first persuaded Hermione with his logic and Ron with his worry. He argued that if they were split up in the future than they would need to know how to protect themselves. When they had looked uncertain he had played his trump card...kitten eyes. He'd blinked and given them a soulful look, mumbling about not wanting to learn alone.

  


They'd caved in almost instantly.

  


That had been three years ago, and Hermione had never been happier with their decision. Over the summer she'd looked up and bought manuals on meditation, traditional western hand-to-hand combat and defense, traditional and modern Chinese and Japanese martial arts, and yoga. They'd studied together when Harry came to the Weasleys house for two weeks, then every spare moment while they were at Hogwarts. It had been slow going, having to teach themselves from pictures and through the step-by-step guides.

  


Surprisingly, Ron had surpassed them both with most of the basic techniques. His head for strategy had proven itself beyond their wildest expectations. Hermione turned out to be quite handy with her hands, using her attackers speed and sizes as well as their own power against them. But other than a few series of moves, Harry didn't seem to be catching on.

  


By the time they had all turned fourteen, Hermione had moved them onto the more advanced techniques, or more importantly, Harry finally seemed to find his niche. The swordfight of his second year had imprinted on him deeply, and his fascination was directed to the small hand-held weapons as items such as twin small staves and the more deadly intricately carved twin daggers he'd once seen in a book but never held. His best work lay in a long wooden staff which he'd carved himself, foraging into the forbidden forest one night with Ron and Hermione until they found a viable piece of wood for him to carve.

  


Unfortunately, there was no way for the weapon to be practical, since none of them had any way of hiding such a large staff. At six foot tall, much larger than Harry's 5ft 4 in frame, and stained a dark inky black it wasn't as easy weapon to miss. Harry had spent almost a year carving the surface. One sinuous Chinese dragon curled around one end, it's tail reaching mid-way down the woods' surface, at the other end he'd carved a delicate overshading of flames, the tips carved as icicles around the centre of the staff, so the transition between fire, ice and then the dragon was smooth. They had been so deftly done that the only way you could tell the surface had been touched was if you were within three feet of the weapon.

  


Hermione sighed, forcing her thoughts back to the youth draped on the bed. "_Tempus." _she whispered, and above her wand the numbers marking the time hovered gently before dissipating as she waved her wand through them. 11:13 am. She waited.

  


  


---*---

  


  


Ron winced as he accidently knocked a bottle off the shelf. It dropped to the stone floor with a loud clatter, but didn't break.

  


"Ron!" Harry yelped, startled. "Be bloody careful."

  


"Sorry mate." Ron said sheepishly, quickly picking up the bottle and shoving it inside the duffle bag Harry had transfigured from a sock. He scanned the shelves, looking for the items Hermione had requested. 

  


Harry was busy filling his own bag. Sterile sheets, bandages, and anytjing else useful which he hoped Poppy wouldn't miss right away were all dumped unceremoniously into the bag transfigured from the other sock in the pair.

  


"Food next, Harry." Ron whispered as they walked through the halls. They had both cast a simple, but efffective, kind of avoidance spell on the bags which would deter people from looking at them or remembering they saw them. 

  


Hogwarts wasn't as busy as usual. Every year from third upwards was at Hogsmeade for the weekend, so only the younger years remained. Most of those were at the Quiddich field, playing a set of friendly matches, the rest were scattered around the main Hall, in detention or trying to catch up on their work. As far as the teachers were concerned, only the four House Heads remained, along with the headmaster, since the rest of the teachers took the time to visit family or chaperone the third years in the village.

  


Dodging a pair of giggling first years was the most excitement they had to face, which wasn't very worrying. 

  


Harry had barely entered the busy kitchen before he was greeted by a very happy house-elf. Always glad to help, Harry and Ron ended up leaving with more food and drink then they could carry comfortably, and with a promise from Dobby to keep them informed if someone started looking for them.

  


All-in-all, a very successful trip.

  


  


  


---*---

  


Tbc...

  


---*---

  


  


  


  



End file.
